Ichor
by Paradigm of Writing
Summary: Gold blood is an interesting sight to see, no? Once an Olympian starts bleeding, it never stops.


**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new one-shot in the Percy Jackson fandom, this time focusing on a much darker subject of obsession and heartbreak- dealing with the characters Hades and Hera. These two gods of Olympus are the perfect characters for this, and you all get to take another look at my deep and dark side, like in my other fanfiction Mannequin, which I posted on the 14th. This story is Rated M for language, violence, and gore. If you can stomach that, continue reading. Enjoy Ichor.**

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><p>There's gold on the floor.<p>

It's on my hands.

It's in her eyes.

It's her blood, not mine. I have to continue repeating to everyone that it's Hera's blood, not mine.

I can't help, but wonder about her eye color before... before we met. I always believed they were gold, but if I thought about it hard enough, they were an incandescent brown, a deep and pure chocolate color. Her eyes represented sadness, the gleam of pity and remorse. My eyes were a blazing black, fit for retribution and revenge. It's ironic how our eye color made us a perfect pair, and even that memory seems distant in itself, even if it only happen an hour ago.

She was envied by many, especially my own rotten brothers who frothed about with other women. I never took a liking to her, but only mere observations by others would tell me otherwise. They were right, I never took a liking to her. I _obsessed _over her.

She was the epitome of beautiful, while my own wife was the antithesis of it. Hera was so delicate, and yet she was so powerful like a rose. Fragile, yet mesmerizing with thorns as sharp as knives, but with a smile as destructive as happiness itself. The only trait I think about her now is the gold that decorates her body, and how gorgeous it makes her look. It outlines the broken structure that was once her figure perfectly, almost like frosting on a cake etching the surface.

Her voice that even made Echo jealous went out days ago, and all she does is quiver and croak about, trying to free herself from the iron prison of blades I made for her. She disliked my present, and it made my body burn in anger.

It's an alluring sight to see her struggle, every movement she makes causing more and more gold to squirt from her body. If I made her body resemble a toothpaste bottle, every time I'd squeeze her, that liquid would leak out. I'd be squeezing her body all day to finally empty her of all that gold. It's a luxurious thing to have, the golden river of life drip off your fingers.

Hera and I used to be birds of a feather once you see, when we were around each other. We were both strong, sometimes she was even stronger than I. It's a depressing thing to realize how that's no longer true anymore. People would boast that Hera was once made of ductile iron, and she was an iron rock that couldn't be moved. I was cast aside as the brittle weakling, who had no control over his emotions. I'd break like a twig if too much pressure was applied to me.

I find it rather joyful to see the roles reversed.

We both were made of steel, and soon... Hera rusted over, while I sapped her strength and became as ductile and malleable as the foundations of life itself. Before we grew apart, I would use that weakness of mine to form a fortress. This fortress would guard my private possessions, my most secretive feelings. I'd allow her to enter it on occasion, if I could trust her that is. We'd have tea parties, and chat about how ignorant my brothers, or her sisters were. Good times.

What a shame we can't do that anymore.

She betrayed my trust.

My body hovers over hers, and she looks up at me. Raw, paralyzed fear is screaming through her eyes. I can't hear her, but all the while, as I gaze at her with lust and fervor, she is screaming. Inside her mind, she is regretting about ever entering my prison, she is regretting the moment she ever talked to me.

A lot of the people that end up dying by my hands think that before I drive the blade between their eyes.

My steps make hollow echoes against the stone walls of my home, and you can feel her eyes watching my every movement. The billowing cape of darkness behind me grows larger and elongates as I inch near her, as I slowly glide across the ground towards Hera. How beautiful must something be, before it's destroyed?

Hera was about to figure out that answer soon enough.

I cup one hand against her face, her cold skin dulling the senses of my fingers under her chin. She moves slightly, and the blade at the left arm nicks her. She whimpers in pain, not daring to even break eye contact with me. A lone drop of gold slides down her wrist, and catches on her elbow. I ignore her, and dab one finger to her skin, catching the satisfying droplet of halcyon. I bring my finger to my lips and let the drop slide onto my teeth.

Her blood is by far the richest I've tasted in a long time, and it pleasures me even more to know that there is an entire body full of it lying right in front of me. The gold drop hits my tongue, and the taste is as bitter as it is sweet, almost like love.

"Do my knives hurt?" I ask, uninterested in her pain, just as she was uninterested in my own.

Crystalline tears stream down her pallid face, which somehow is still cut and bruise free. It's as if her face is the only 'holy' part of her body. It will please me to no end when I can finally get another color than white on that pretty face of hers, for she is a simple blank canvas just desperately wanting to be painted on. The resistance has to stop at some point, right?

If my mind wasn't in flames, and my heart wasn't shattered and broken like old china plates thrown by robbers, I might of had some decency to kiss her passionately, and feel some hurt at seeing her so broken. But, Hera destroyed that notion of even coming to light when she burned down my heart. I pressed my check against the right side of her face, my nose caught in the tangles of her mahogany hair.

I smelled the locks of her hair, curling a few strands in my fingers. "You smell differently, from the last time I remember. Maybe your blood finally decided you were too fucking bland, and wanted to spice part of you up. You've done a wonderful job!" I tell her, before sliding back to stare at my lifetime's work.

Of all the people who've had the honor of being in my wretched home I call my mind, she was my favorite one to harm and bruise. Hera was too perfect for my liking, she didn't have enough shit wrong with her to scratch and dirty up that reputation she tried effortlessly to uphold. How sad is it to know that her efforts were naught, and all in vain? Not much of a difference, she would soon become like everybody else that wandered in. They come out broken and destroyed, with no hopes of even having a chance to reconcile with their past lives.

I always leave a warning sign at my front door, yet no one chooses to follow it. Look where it leaves them... to become just another face of my library, one more memory in the scrapbook that already has millions of names just like theirs. Some of the older ones like Icarus or Daedalus who came in, but never came out were too easy to kill. Their bodies broke in minutes, while with Hera... she is taking forever. It makes my heart pound in eagerness when I get to watch all of that fine blood spill on my floor.

Hera holds a special place in my heart because she's the only one I've loved. She didn't do it back, which meant that held indifference towards me. The opposite of love is indifference, and she had that one wrapped around her brain.

The blade that was in my hands feels weird, as it is not as cold as Hera's skin. My knife has seen more action than any other part of my body. It's burned down so many lives, and wrecked so many dreams that I sometimes say that my blade is worse than my mouth. I can always draw back my weapon, but never my words. Yet... I time and time again allow my actions to speak for me, because my breath doesn't deserve to be heard by anyone else.

Hera sees me, her once brown eyes rising in terror.

"Pray that you go to sleep my dear Hera," I say to her, placing the knife at her stomach. "You'd be happy to miss this show,"

The blade is barely touching her skin, but it's enough to cause Hera to lose her marbles. I slap her as hard as I can, her face swaying back against the wall. More gold leaks out of her body, and she's lost so much blood, I'm practically ankle deep in all this treasure.

"Listen to me," I snarl. "You've let your fucking creator lose sight of you. That path you used to walk on crumbled by the time you got to the end of it, and now I have you swallowing the burning hatred you once tried throwing at me. You are a bitch who let me have my way with you, and before we ever met in this state, I sacrificed everything I had to deal with your shit! Not once did you ever repay me, not once did I ever get a single piece of condolence or reward! You forced me to drag you into this hell I created, and all you had to do was be my equal. If you ever only gave me the fucking love I gave you, would I not be having your delicate body decorate my halls! I hope you enjoy hell Hera, I made a special seat right by my side for you. It's the world I created, and here, I'm the creator!"

I drew my hand back fast, the knife cutting into her body. A simian wail rang out from her, and a torrent of golden blood poured out from beneath the wound I inflicted on her. She is trying to scream, trying to yell and get somebody's attention. She's so fucking stupid I tell you, for no one would hear her down here. Only me, and I'd relish in the fact if her screams could become my alarm clock.

There was once a girl with gold eyes... would you like to meet her?

Once the gods start bleeding, we never _ever _stop.

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><p><strong>Bravo if you went through the entire one-shot without backing out. A review would really be appreciated, for I've never really gotten this dark and serious with my material.<strong>

**~ Paradigm**


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